


Secret Admirer? UGH! NO!

by ImpalaGirl42



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad Poetry, F/M, Fluff, Sweet, just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 08:57:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17639723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpalaGirl42/pseuds/ImpalaGirl42
Summary: You get a bouquet of flowers and a really bad poem delivered to you at the bunker from a "secret admirer". Who is it? How do they know where the bunker is? Or what your favorite flower is?Or where Dean tries to poetry and fails, but gets the girl anyway, because it's the chick-flick moment that counts.





	Secret Admirer? UGH! NO!

You hated dawn, unless you were lucky enough to be able to sleep way past it. Which didn’t happen often when you were on a case. Or, on the day after you finished one. No matter how late you and the brothers got back to the motel the night before, Dean was always up by dawn, at the latest, on the day after; singing loudly, off-key, any annoying childhood song he could think of to get you and Sam out of bed as quickly as possible. 

If you were lucky he’d have already been to town and grabbed coffee for you both.

“Rise and shine people! Ohhhhhhh, the wheels on the bus go round and round! The wheels on the bus go round and round!” 

Sam just rolled over and groaned in irritation. Thirty-six of years of dealing with Dean’s annoying early-morning attitude had taught him how to cope. You on the other hand still got angry; even after four years of traveling with the brothers.

You shot up out of bed like you were on fire. Fleeting bits of your dream, your very pleasant dream where Dean was putting his mouth to a better use on other parts of your body while you were wearing clown shoes in your childhood bed, fled your brain; although you took a second to wonder where the hell the clown shoes came from. Shaking yourself mentally, you looked around the room to see if Dean at least gotten coffee before you started to yell at him.

Peeling laminate countertop: _No coffee._

Stained particle board nightstand on Sam’s side of the room: _No coffee._

Laughing loudly Dean: _Yep, sitting in the cheap metal chair next to the counter._

Sink in the bathroom with mold around the faucets: _Please god, no coffee in the super nasty bathroom. No coffee. Good._

Wait, _laughing_?

“Dean Winchester! Why the _hell_ are you singing? Where the _hell_ is my coffee? And, what the _hell_ are you laughing at?”

Sam frowns at Dean, his dimples flaring, as he grabs his bag and heads into the bathroom. “Dude, be nice.”

“I’m always nice Sammy! She just looks hilarious right now is all.”

You looked down at yourself to see if you could see what Dean was talking about. Your sleep pants were lopsided, one pant leg was stuck high up on your thigh and the other one was where it was supposed to be. Your tank top shoulder on the latter side was draped halfway down your arm, almost flashing your breast to the entire room. 

Dean laughed louder as you raised your arms to your hair to find that the messy bun you put your hair in to sleep was halfway toward a ponytail and hanging off the side of your head. Your angry huff just makes his grin even bigger. 

“Really Dean? I’ve seen how you look in the morning. Beauty sleep is not what I’d call that look. Grow up.” 

Turning your back on Dean, ‘That dick’, you think to yourself, you grab clothes out of your bag and strip out of your shirt. 

“Sweetheart, I’m still in the room, ya know.”

“So? Can you see anything?

“No. But it’s still kind of distracting”, you hear fabric rubbing against itself behind you as Dean moves around uncomfortably on the hard chair in the room. 

Grinning, because the best way to get in a good mood when you’re mad at Dean is by making him uncomfortable. Turning up the discomfort levels, you say, “You can wank to thoughts of my incredible back in the shower later. We’re in a hurry you know.”

There’s a thunk behind you. You assume Dean is beating his head on the table, which is confirmed by the bathroom door opening and Sam saying, “Dean, why are you head-desking?”

“Never mind.”

He stomps out the door, his bag over his shoulder, and slams it behind him. A minute later the Impala’s horn sounds, a long beep that says the driver is annoyed and might just leave without you. He did that after a hunt in Texas when you refused to get out of bed. Two hours later he showed up in the diner you and Sam were waiting at, knowing he would feel guilty for leaving you and come back. 

“What did you say to him?” 

Sam knew your habit of winding Dean up, he also kept trying to make you admit that you had feelings for his brother, but you were as stubborn as both of the Winchesters. No way was Sam going to get you to admit anything you didn’t want to admit to.

You winked at Sam, slung your bag over your back, and walked out the door just as Dean honked again.

The ride back to Kansas was long and, as always, filled with the unique mixture of boring and entertainment that only a long road trip with family can bring. The three of you playfully bantered with each other after copious amounts of coffee were drank by all; Sam listened to podcasts on his phone; there were lots of stops for bathroom breaks, snacks, and gas; and you spent most of the trip writing on your book. You loved to write, but after you started to hunt you found that you didn’t have the time or a way to do it easily when you had the time. But a few months ago on your birthday your friends fixed that for you.

* * *

Several months ago:  
_  
Engrossed in the new Stephen King novel you don’t hear the tapping on your door at first. When you do, you jump a little, which makes Dean smile that happy grin you love to see, the one that crinkles the corner of his eyes._

_“You hunt monsters for a living, you don’t complain about going in small tunnels, you don’t scream at spiders, but someone knocking on the door scares you.”_

_The grin spreads over your face before you can stop it. “Shut up”, you say._

_Putting a bookmark in your book, you close it and set it down next to you, before patting the bed to invite Dean into the room._

_“Now that you scared me you have to sit down next to me and tell me what you’re holding behind your back there.”_

_He walks into the room and sits on the side of your bed, near your knees. Still hiding something behind his back. You can see it’s a box, but can’t make out any details._

_“Well you see, a little birdie told me…”_

_“Sam.”_

_“Sammy, right. He told me that it’s your birthday today. I know none of us really “do” birthdays”, he said, making quotation marks with his fingers, “but you said the other day that you like to write but that it’s hard to find the time to do so and when you have the time to do so it’s hard to find a way. So I bought you this.”_

_Dean takes two neatly wrapped boxes out from behind his back and hands you the top one first. It’s wrapped in a shiny green paper with a silver bow stuck on the top, kind of flattened from where it must have gotten crushed at some point. Not that you care in the slightest how crushed the bow is. You’re too busy taking the gift from Dean’s hand and trying not to let the tears in your eyes spill over._

_“That’s from me. Open it first.”_

_Then he hands you a second, thinner box, wrapped in blue paper with bright yellow and red “happy birthday” printed all over it. With shaking hands you carefully undo the tape on the side of Dean’s box._

_He runs his hand across his face, “You’re kidding me sweetheart. Don’t you know how to open a present? You rip the paper. Want me to show you?” He reaches toward the green wrapped box in your hand._

_You pull the box away and slap his hand._

_“No! Bad Dean! My gift, my way of opening it.”_

_For good measure, and a good sign of maturity, you stick your tongue out at him. You don’t notice the way his eyes darken at the sight or how he licks his own lips in response, because you’re attention is already focused on the box in your hands._

_“Dean! It’s an iPad! Oh my God! Thank you so much!”_

_You lean over the bed and wrap your arms around Dean and give him the best hug you can from that angle. Your neck is crooked at an awkward angle, your hands can’t really get a good grip on him, and as a thank you hug goes, let alone a Dean Hug, it’s a crappy hug. You let go of him and sit back and smile at Dean._

_“That was a terrible hug. Let’s try again.”_

_Carefully, you lay the iPad on the stand next to your bed and stand up, pulling Dean with you. You wrap your arms around his solid chest and rest your head on his shoulder, hugging him firmly. You feel his arms tighten around you as he pulls you closer and gives you a kiss on the back of your head._

_“You’re welcome sweetheart. I thought a tablet would be easier to use in the car on trips than a laptop. I’ll even let you put in a charger in Baby as long as you don’t leave it in there all the time. I don’t want to iDouche up my Baby.”_

_That makes you snort. You have always been charmed by Dean’s clever and quick wit, something you will never let him know about, his ego is big enough as it is._

_You roll your eyes at him as you pull out of the hug that wasn’t quite long enough for your wishes, but just a shade too long for a thank you, “You’re so thoughtful.”_

_“I’m awesome. Don’t forget Sam’s gift.”_

_Sam got you a Bluetooth keyboard for your iPad so you could type faster as you write. You immediately ran to the library to thank him before spending the rest of the day downloading apps._

__

* * *

The sound of the Impala shutting off made you look up from your typing. Your heroine, Rachel, was just about to defeat the dragon that turned her husband into a statue. The familiar bunker garage surrounded the car. You had lost track of time writing. For once it was going well and that’s of course when you had to get home.

You grabbed your stuff, glared at Dean, slammed your door and stomped down the hall toward your bedroom. From behind you you could hear a bewildered Dean asking Sam what he did to piss you off.

After a shower and a long nap you headed out into the library to tell Dean you were sorry for the way you acted when you got home. He wasn’t there but a bouquet of flowers was on the table with a card propped up next to it. 

Frowning a little in confusion, you looked at the card which had your name on it. You started to open it when you heard Dean’s voice from the doorway, “That was delivered while you were sleeping. Sam signed for it. Any idea who it’s from?”

“No. No idea.”

You open the card to see it’s a simple card that all florists have. On it is written:

> You are the most beautiful soul I’ve ever met  
>  I truly believe you are heaven sent  
>  You make me be a better man  
>  I’m your biggest fan
> 
> Yours,  
>  A secret admirer

Seriously freaked out by the idea of a secret admirer: the fact that whoever this is not only knows where you live but what your favorite flowers are, you start to shake a bit in fear. Dean notices your shaking and goes into protective mode.

“Hey, what’s wrong? What’d the card say?”

You hand him the card silently and watch him as he reads it. Pacing the room, you wrap your arms around yourself, not looking at Dean. 

He sounds confused when he asks, “What’s creeping out so bad about this? The shitty poetry?” Dean laughs, thinking maybe his joke will get a grin out of you, but his face falls when you don’t respond.

“The secret admirer stuff. Who is he, how does he know where I live? The bunker is secret! Also, how did he know those flowers are my favorite flowers? What if he’s a demon? Or a shifter? Or a ghoul?” You start out in a normal voice but by the time you reach the end of your questioning your voice is a couple octaves higher and much louder. You raise tear-filled eyes to Dean, expecting him to be furious and protective of someone trying to hurt his best friend.

Instead he looks… Hurt?

Dean raises his hands in supplication and takes a couple steps toward you. “It’s not a demon. Or a shifter. Or a ghoul. Or anything we hunt. Please sweetheart, let me explain.”

You freeze in place. It was Dean? He’s your secret admirer? But he doesn’t like you like you like him. He doesn’t really flirt with you like he does the other women he picks up for one night stands. He’s more physically affectionate with you than he is with Sam, but then you’re not his brother, and it’s nothing more than he’d do with other friends. Right?

Apparently you’re wrong, because he’s still talking, saying all the things you want to hear.

“…like you for a while now. You know how I am about chick flick moments though.”

That causes you to lose it again but with laughter instead of fear and tears.

“Winchester, I have known you for four years. I’ve shared a Netflix account with you for that long. You do know that I have looked at your profile right? At the list of movies you have on your ‘My List’? Like _Love, Actually_ …” You walked closer to Dean.

“It’s got boobs! It’s practically porn!” Dean huffed.

“To _My Best Friend’s Wedding_ …” Moving closer.

“Julia Roberts. Hittable”, his smirk and far off gaze suggested what his thoughts were at that second and they weren’t of you.

“ _Four Weddings and a Funeral_ …”

“Hugh Grant. Not hittable, but eh. Not not hittable. If I were to lean that way. Which I don’t!” The tips of Dean’s ears were a little red as he tried to defend his heterosexuality.

“I’m just saying, for a dude who hates chick-flick moments, he watches a lot of chick flicks. Also, he apparently went to a lot of trouble to do something really romantic and sweet to let a girl he likes know he likes her. He even wrote really sweet sorta poetry. I just didn’t expect it to be you and freaked. Not your fault”, you said as your arms wrapped themselves around his chest. 

Dean’s arms snapped around your shoulders and hugged you close. Tilting his head slightly he grinned sheepishly at you, “Yeah, sorry about the really crappy poetry. You know I read, but I never understood poetry. I know women supposedly love it though so I gave it a shot.”

“Well, for future reference, I hate, loathe, and despise poetry. Your poem is literally the only one I like. I will treasure it forever. I don’t care how bad it technically is.”

“I knew I loved you for a reason.”

Dean lowered his lips onto yours and kissed you with such tenderness and affection that you felt like you could melt right there in the slightly chilly bunker. You moved your lips over his and he hummed into your mouth in appreciation. He wrapped one hand around your head, working his fingers through your hair and let the other one slide down to your lower back and pulled you even closer to him. 

After what seemed like both forever and not long enough the two of you parted just enough to rest each others foreheads together. 

“Wow”, you breathed.

“Sweetheart, I’ve been wanting to kiss you for three years now.”

“Why didn’t you do it sooner then?”

Dean laughed softly and his eyes were soft and fond as he brushed your hair back, “I have no idea. I think I was being an idiot.”

“I think you are right. You were an idiot”, you grinned cheekily up at Dean.

He swatted you on your arm in pretend irritation, “Hey now, you didn’t kiss me either.”

“Who says I’m not an idiot?”

Dean’s eyes lit up. He opened his mouth to say something, something you knew was going to be both witty and annoying. Rather than listening to him, and then putting up with him being smug about being both witty and annoying, you shut him up the best way you knew how: you kissed him.

It worked. He grabbed as much of you as he could and pressed you as close to him as was physically possible.

You were going to have to remember this trick to getting Dean to shut up. Might make witness interviews awkward, you thought. But that’s what Sam is there for; to smooth things like this over. It’s probably easier to deal with Dean being kissed than Dean being a smartass. 

But for now you relaxed in your new boyfriends arms kissing him as feverently as he kissed you. 

Maybe a secret admirer wasn’t so bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, I warned y'all about the poetry. I don't know poetry, I don't like much poetry that I have read, or understand how to write it. 
> 
> Sorry. 
> 
> Truly.


End file.
